Ill
by Johnny Davenport
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was at a loss. He didn't know what to do. A fluffy little one-shot. John/Sherlock slash!


A/N: Basically a lot of fluff and, probably, ooc-ness. My first dive into the Sherlock fandom, please be gentle.

...

Sherlock Holmes was at a loss.

He didn't know what to do.

[Earlier...]

Sherlock woke up to a groan and the sound of feet shuffling quickly across the floor above him.

This was followed by retching and water rushing through the pipes when the toilet was flushed.

Sherlock peeled himself from his bed and, grabbing his dressing gown as he passed, made his way toward his flatmate's room.

There was a thump and a muffled moan when he reached the top of the staircase.

"John?" he called as he swung the door open.

Another moan.

"John, are you alright? Where are you?"

A hand popped up from the other side of John's bed and promptly returned to the floor with a thud.

"John, what happened?" Sherlock breathed as he rushed to where the doctor was, crumpled on the floor.

The older man was deathly pale and sweating profusely, the smell of vomit lingering in the air.

Sherlock grabbed his friend's shoulders and stared at him intently.

"Quickly John, think! Who might have done this to you? Did you eat anything different when you were out last night? Meet a new girl? - No, wait! Tell me your symptoms! We need to figure out what kind of poison it is before-"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John glared, his voice gruff.

"Really John, we-"

"I haven't been poisoned, Sherlock."

"What are you talking about? Of course you have. I'm putting delusional on your list of symptoms."

"Idiot," John muttered, and then, if it was possible, his face paled even further.

"Bathroom," he choked out, grabbing Sherlock's wrists to get the detective to help him up.

As soon as they arrived, John lunged for the toilet and was once more sick.

He cursed as he wiped his mouth with toilet paper and tossed it in with the very last of his dinner.

"Now John," Sherlock continued as if nothing had happened.

"I haven't been poisoned, Sherlock. I've got the ruddy flu," John said as he leaned back against the wall.

"You're ill," Sherlock said, as though he couldn't quite comprehend the concept.

John chuckled, wiping sweat from his eyes.

"Yes Sherlock, I'm ill. Now would you please fill a glass of water for me? I need to stay hydrated."

"Oh yes, of course," the curly haired man muttered, not paying much attention as he was in rather deep thought.

He handed John the glass and then slid down to sit next to his friend.

Quite some time, and more dry heaves than either man would like to count, later, John spoke up.

"So what's the main though swirling around in that big brain of yours?" he asked, more out of boredom than the expectation of an answer.

It took a few moments, but he did indeed answer.

"You're ill, John," Sherlock said.

"I'd thought we'd established that?" John asked, a smile quirking his lips.

"But you're a doctor."

"Once again, stating the obvious."

John was not quite sure what to do with this new idiot-Sherlock.

"Doctor's don't get ill," Sherlock said simply, earnestly.

John laughed at the childish notion.

"Really Sherlock, doctors are people, and people get sick. Therefore, one can deduce that doctors do indeed catch cold from time to time."

John paused, "This isn't one of your I've-deleted-it-because-it's-useless-information things, is it?"

Sherlock glared.

"Or," John said slowly, "have you never actually seen a sick doctor, so the idea that doctors don't get sick has just stayed with you since you were a child?"

A light blush crept its way up the younger man's neck.

"Oh Sherlock" was all John managed to say before the liquid in his stomach decided to mimic a rocket launch out of his esophagus once again.

Breathing heavily, John leaned back again and rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

Suddenly, Sherlock began to talk, as though he was nervous, but of course that couldn't be it.

John didn't mind the talking so much, but he did mind his choice of subject matter.

The consulting detective was going on and on about exactly why none of the girls John had brought around the flat were a good match for him.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John warned.

He talked about Sarah and Janette and the one in-between whose name neither man could remember at the moment.

"I mean it Sherlock. Shut up or I'm going to kiss you right on the lips and infect you with all my ill-doctory germs," John threatened.

That made Sherlock pause. And then...

"Really John, I hardly think-"

John shoved his body against Sherlock and stretched up to plant a big, wet, sloppy, germy kiss on the genius' lips.

The ex-soldier grunted as he let himself back down to the floor.

Sherlock Holmes was at a loss.

He didn't know what to do.

And then,

suddenly,

he did.


End file.
